Lion Head Mesa I have the honor to be

Pathways through the desert will vanish to the whiteout of a blistering noon. This is the proper order of things, how it is decided by the wastes who may pass. How will lungs take to thick loamy air? And paws that with every step sink into greedy throats of sand? Or a shimmering sea revealed to be a dancing thermal ploy? The desert tests all who seek to cross her.

And many will fail, their sun-parched remains a passageway laid with death. There’s a hollow toll as a guff of air draws dust against ossein, which to Sutekh is a song.

It is good to be home.

On the horizon sweeps a grand red mesa, stark against the flat golden sands. Shedding power, reaching for the jackal in invisible tendrils. His voice lifts into a dry trill, resonant still against the trials. An offer of service to the deshret who dwell here.